Foul Mouthed
by Fandemonium-in-the-streets
Summary: Sherlock has noticed Just how much John Watson swears, and he's noticed that he'd beginning to as well...with alarming frequency... Sherlock later comes up with a solution and John doesn't take kindly to it. Rated T for swearing but all bad letters are replaced with an '*'. Just some nice fluff and banter, please enjoy!
1. The Realization

**AN: WEEEE! This is my first Sherlock fanfic, (though there are DEFINITELY more to come in the future!) so please tell me how I did! I really enjoyed writing this and I hope you enjoy reading it! I was listening to some interviews with Martin Freeman (he's a funny dude, seriously) and I noticed just how much he swore! So I wondered if John Watson swore, with him being in the army and all. This is how my mind would play it all out :) ENJOY!**

**WARNING: Serious swearing, though letters are replaced with an asterix (*).**

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**Foul Mouthed**

"You know what John?"

"Mmm?" John said absentmindedly. He was busy typing up the last few paragraph of their previous case and he wanted to finish soon. 'Boring jealous lover' as Sherlock had put it. Still, John didn't know how he'd managed to figure out that it was a certain brand of nail polish that had poisoned the husband. The man knew too much about feminine products than was healthy.

John glanced up at Sherlock. He was sprawled out on the couch, the warm (and rare) sunlight basking the flat in an orange glow. Sherlock mumbled something in his deep baritone, but John missed it, his eyes riveted on the screen again. Crappy, daytime television was playing softly on the TV.

"Wait, what? I wasn't listening." John said, pausing his two fingered typing. Sherlock really did look like a lazy cat, he thought to himself.

"You know I hate repetition John" he admonished, stretching out "I said that you've had a rather negative effect on me that I've noticed recently."

"Oh?" John said amused. "And what's that? Not happy that I've managed to beat some manners into you? I think Mrs Hudson nearly had a fit when you invited her in for dinner the other night" he continued typing, smiling at the memory. Of course Mrs Hudson had ended up doing all the cooking herself. Sherlock chuckled and sat up.

"Actually think it's rather the opposite." John looked at Sherlock, genuinely intrigued. He had always been told that he was a good thing for his completely socially inept flatmate. If anything, Sherlock had had a bad effect on him. He was strangely immune to body parts and poisons in the flat now. Though he had put his foot down when Sherlock had tried to sneak a badger into their breadbox.

"Really? How so?" John put his laptop on the coffee table beside him and turned to face Sherlock better.

"Well," he began, "my parents raised me to be a gentleman" John snorted but he ignored him, "I was told to never take advantage of somebody drunk, always be polite"- another snigger from John-"yes, yes I know, it's all really funny isn't it? And i was told to never swear. However," he continued, "I've noticed with alarming frequency that, well, things just slip out. I've realized just how often you swear as well" after a few seconds of contemplation, John sighed and replied wearily,

"I'm afraid I don't agree with you Sherlock," he said, "my language isn't any worse than Lestrade's or Stamford's, and you hang around them heaps. In fact, I'd say Lestrade is worse." John chuckled. Sherlock huffed out a retort and John went back to his laptop, typing nauseatingly slowly. He was nearly finished his last few sentences, and God was he looking forward to a cup of tea. The sounds of traffic outside buzzed through the quiet flat for a few minutes before-

"Sh*t! F*ck NO! God Dammit!"

John groaned out in intense frustration and Sherlock glanced over at John casually.

"Something wrong?" Sherlock asked innocently.

"Oh, F*ck off, Sherlock!" John spat, "My laptop shut down and I've lost my whole blog! And I was just about to post it too!" Sherlock feigned a look of shock.

"You kiss your mother with that mouth?" A hardly suppressed snigger slid across Sherlock's face, but he remained silent. John stood up curtly and smacked Sherlock on the back of the head as he walked past. Sherlock yelped, massaging his head.

"My mouth is just fine, you insufferable git", he said as he flicked on the kettle. He wandered over to the fridge and opened it up. Nothing was stopping him from having a cup of tea anywa-

"Are you F*CKING kidding me Sherlock?! We're out of bloody milk AGAIN?!"

Sherlock's laughter rang throughout the flat.

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**AN: I'm considering making a Part 2 of this where we see one of the time's Sherlock swears in public without meaning too! What do you guys think, should I do it? Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated! I wanna know how I did and how I could improve! Reviews are Nutella for me!**


	2. A Cleaning Solution

**AN: Hey everyone! Thanks to all the people who reviews, favourited and followed this story! I know I said to some people that I would make the Part 2 as a separate story, but I got this idea and I had to do it! I'm still thinking about a story where Sherlock's swears in public, but I'm not getting anything at the moment. However do have patience, kind readers, don't think I've forgotten about it! Please enjoy the story, I had so much fun writing it!**

**WARNING: Serious swearing, but like before letters are replaced with an asterix (*).**

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**A Cleaning Solution**

John trudged up the stairs of the flat, his arms laden with plastic shopping bags stretching and about to burst. He struggled through the narrow doorway and dumped the shopping on the clear (Thank God, thought John) kitchen table. He began unpacking, throwing his flat mate an annoyed look with every item he picked up. Sherlock was sitting in the leather armchair with his legs stretched languidly in front of him and hands neatly placed beneath his chin, watching him work. He looked completely composed and it infuriated John to no end. He dragged everything out of the bags, chucking them into the cupboards haphazardly. He was ridiculously tired and had a bad day at the surgery, and to top it all off, he had asked Sherlock to go do the shopping-which he most certainly HAD NOT done when he got home.

He hadn't had a case in over a fortnight and he was becoming a nightmare, tearing his violin apart (metaphorically of course, he loved that block of wood more than anything, the git) at three in the morning, ripping up John's favourite jumper ("Sherlock! What are you DOING!?" "SCIENCE, John!") and terrorizing poor Mrs. Hudson with all the dangerous experiments. It had been a trying fortnight, but they would get through it. They always did. Somebody was probably getting murdered or mugged in this bloody city right now. John chose to ignore how the thought didn't upset him at all.

John's mind was wandering and a can of peaches slid out of his hand…onto his foot. Perfect for calming the nerves. Haha – NOT.

"OW! Mother F*cker!" John drew in a sharp breath through his clenched teeth and he threw a filthy scowl at Sherlock who was watching him through lazy eyes. Arrogant bastard, just watching him suffer.

John gave up on the shopping and stomped into the living room, throwing himself into the armchair opposite Sherlock, who was still watching him. John breathed heavily, trying to rein his rampant emotions. Oh, God how nice it would be to have Sherlock's self-control and just discard emotions as if they were moldy old turnips. John felt decidedly calmer after a few minutes of sitting and he took a look around him, noticing that there was a large, glass jar by Sherlock's feet. It had a label on the back that John couldn't see. He was just about to question it when Sherlock spoke up.

"I've come up with a plan. A cleaning solution of sorts" John's eyes narrowed, trying to deduce Sherlock's meaning. He gave up after a few seconds however. Sherlock's face was a blank slate. But-wait, there was a small smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. Aw, F*ck, what's he got planned?

"Sh*t" John took in a deep breath, bracing himself. His irritation flared up slightly, he hated it when Sherlock went into his 'I'm-A-Mysterious-Detective-And-I-Can-Be-As-F*ckin g-Mysterious-As-I-F*cking-Like' mode.

"Okay, a plan for what?" John said. Sherlock studied him carefully for a few moments before picking up the jar at his feet and turning the label around to face John. He read the label and stared at Sherlock incredulously.

"No."

"Come on, John! You need help!" he paused for a few seconds before his face became grave and he whispered,

"You're sick."

"I said no, Sherlock! I'm not doing it! It's bloody ridiculous! And I'm not sick!"

Before Sherlock could come up with a clever retort, John stood up and stormed back into the kitchen.

He picked up the jar of peaches he had dropped earlier and smacked it down on the kitchen table in frustration. God Dammit! He'd forgotten to put the chicken away and now it was bloody warm. He'd have to go out and buy more now.

"John, be reasonable! Lestrade nearly punched your lights out after you swore in front of his 4 year old kid! And since Lestrade's a responsible adult, I think that's saying something."

John pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed deeply. He looked at Sherlock in the corner of his eye. He was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, a determined look on his face he only ever got when he wanted something he was being denied. Like for John to put his hard earned money in a jar labelled: 'My No Cussy Cussy Jar' whenever he swore. He looked Sherlock right in the eye and said with a straight face,

"You know, Sherlock," he said, stroking his chin thoughtfully, "the way you spelt 'cussy' reminds me of the word pu-"

"POUND IN THE JAR!" Sherlock yelled wildly, thrusting the jar forwards towards John. John burst out laughing at the look on his face. Sherlock obviously thought that particular word was ghastly, worse than the others John frequently let past his lips. His laughter died out however, when he realized Sherlock was serious. As he started inching towards John with a feral grin on his face, John made a split second decision he would later regret.

He darted around the table, making for the stairs up to his room. But Sherlock was faster and more agile. Anticipating his run for it; he slammed the jar down on the table and made a wild lunge for John. He managed to wrap his around his torso and they both fell down, landing spectacularly awkwardly. They both groaned and as John made to get up; Sherlock pounced and gripped John in a headlock. Of course, with John being a soldier, he knew how to free himself, but he hadn't quite reached the point where he would willingly break Sherlock's arm to free himself. But it was getting there.

"You b*tch! Let go of me!" John choked as he struggled to loosen the arms around his neck.

"Not until you promise to use your No Cussy Cussy Jar!" Sherlock shouted. John struggled harder against Sherlock's strong arms and he rapidly became tired. The fall had winded him and Sherlock's grip was not loosening despite his best attempts. John slackened, but Sherlock held him steady against the table.

"Fine," John panted, "You win. I'll use your stupid jar."

"Wrong, it's YOUR jar. I have my own." Sherlock replied coolly. John twisted in Sherlock's grip to try and look at his face.

"Wh-Really?" John started laughing and Sherlock struggled to keep a hold of a convulsing, weak and very heavy John. "Are you serious? You have a cuss jar too?"

"Like I said a while ago, things have just been slipping out. I need to eradicate the habit before it becomes as advanced and hard to remove as yours." Sherlock explained. He paused for a few seconds before adding thoughtfully,

"I suppose I'll have to carry a smaller jar…or a purse or something in public. We can't carry glass jars with us everywhere." John took advantage of Sherlock's distraction and pulled himself swiftly out of his grip. Sherlock didn't seem to care, he knew he had won the fight and John knew it too. Sherlock leaned against the kitchen table and John crossed his arms sceptically.

"Really? You're going to carry a woman's purse around with you?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Don't be stupid John, a money purse, not a handbag."

John sighed and went back into the living room. He sat down heavily in his armchair, anger completely drained from his system. Sherlock joined him and flopped out on the couch. John flicked on the telly and neither said anything for a sometime, too wrapped up in their own thoughts (or enraptured by the pretty presenter on the TV).

Half an hour later, the program's credits were rolling and Sherlock was still thinking about how big a purse or what type he should buy. There was also the consideration of whether to have two and each have one, though he had a feeling that John would chuck his or not bother putting money in it when he did swear. Maybe he should carry them both…but Sherlock would forget about it while he was on a case and John wouldn't remind him…Or should he just get one and they could take turns carrying it…..but then how would they know who's money is who's? Sherlock shouldn't have to keep track of something as mundane as cuss jar money and he didn't think John would agree to do it.

John turned off the telly and looked across as Sherlock, still engrossed in his thoughts. Probably thinking about how to best dissect a ferret or something equally disgusting, John mused. Struck by a sudden thought, he said,

"Where's your cuss jar?" Sherlock slowly turned his head towards John, pulling himself from his thoughts.

"In my room." He waved his hand dismissively and John got up to get it. They had come to a silent mutual agreement that John could go in Sherlock's room so long as he didn't mess with any experiments and Sherlock couldn't go in John's room at all.

John glanced around the immaculate room, glad that for once he could see the floor. Too often it was covered in books, papers and chemistry equipment. He walked over to Sherlock's desk and smiled upon seeing the big glass jar labelled neatly: 'Cuss Jar'. John smiled to himself and peeled off the label. Why did he get to have a regular name and John didn't?

"Oh, no you don't, you cheeky bastard." He picked up a permanent marker from the desk and wrote on the glass in big letters: 'The B*tch's Jar'. John was pleased of himself and he took the jar out with him into the living room. He picked up his own from the kitchen table and placed them proudly on the mantelpiece, right next to each other. Sherlock saw that John had done something to his Cuss Jar and he stood next to him, preparing himself for the worst. John glanced up at him smugly and Sherlock said with a smirk,

"That's a quid in Your No Cussy Cussy Jar, John. You know the rules."

The look John gave him said he was in deep sh*t.

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**AN: Don't forget to review! They give me the motivation to write more stories and remind me I have to update! (plus it's pretty fun)**


	3. NOTICE-Foul Mouthed

**AN: Hey all, sorry this isn't the chapter you wanted! BUT I have some good news! I've posted a new story called 'Blaspheme!' about when Sherlock first swore in public. Be sure to check it out and I really hope you like it!**

**Have a nice day!**


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